


Something More

by Allie_J



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bucky's POV, Depression, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Suicidal Ideation (mention), Tags: I Can't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6311518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allie_J/pseuds/Allie_J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Would it help to tell me?” Steve asks.  </p>
<p>He slumps to the side, feeling the muscle of Steve’s bicep stiffen briefly beneath his cheek.  He’s wearing a t-shirt, and the bottom edge of the sleeve is soaked; now it’s wetter still, dampened by his hair.</p>
<p>It does, it always does, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt first, like a burn that yields to fresh skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something More

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what to call this or how to describe it. An out of context drabble about recovery, I guess.
> 
> Or, the real summary: I had a shitty day and it was either write something or get drunk.

There is a soft knock on the door. 

No, not a knock, really – the rasp of a single knuckle, then the slow drag as it trails down the wood, questioning.

He knows he’s lost time. It happens, when he stumbles into feeling this way – on the precipice of realization, about to dive into something either deeply wrong or profoundly right.

“Bucky,” comes his voice, far away, muffled by the barrier between them. He takes in a slow breath, and the water ripples slightly around his chest.

He knows he has to answer. Steve waits a long time – sometimes too long – to ask; he knows it pains him to wait, to wonder. He feels hazy, blank, like closing his eyes will send everything into blinding white; but he has to answer.

“Steve,” he breathes, then realizes that isn’t right. It is Steve, yes, but it isn’t enough just to acknowledge that he’s there. “Go ahead.”

There, he’s said it; permission for him to open the door. He waits, eyes focusing in and out on the white tile in front of him. How long has it been? More than hour, surely. But not two. Steve wouldn’t have waited for two.

He hears the soft creak of the door opening, tentative, like the man behind it. Light floods the bathroom, unnatural blue-grey – it’s night outside, and there is no sunlight in the apartment.

He’s lit a candle. He would prefer the darkness, really, can think better in the dark, but he knows it scares him, scares Steve, to open the door and not be able to make him out. It’s become a ritual; the erratic little flame lending a kind of legitimacy to this. To make it seem sweet, and simple, and ‘relaxing,’ when in reality it’s painful and strange and anything but.

“Hey,” Steve whispers, easing his entrance with the word. He hears his footsteps as he inches closer, slowly, like a lion stalking its prey – only he’s the lion. “It’s been awhile, Buck.”

A stab of guilt hits his chest. He doesn’t like to do this, doesn’t mean to do this. To make Steve worry.

“I’m –“ he starts, but swallows the word. Steve doesn’t want his apologies.

“You doing okay?” Steve asks him quietly.

He already has part of the answer. No, obviously, because people with a solid grasp on reality don’t lose time in a bathtub in the dark. Yes, obviously, because he’s speaking – answering questions, even if he can’t quite look at him. There were times when he couldn’t speak.

He swallows again, not sure how to answer. What he can possibly say.

Steve is looming closer, kneeling; approaching inch by inch, giving him plenty of time to stop him, to send him away. Steve has assured him, endlessly, that there’s no shame in that. In refusing to be touched, sometimes.

He doesn’t quite believe it. Not when Steve’s cornflower eyes darken in awe at the sight of their skin touching, when he does finally allow it again.

“Talk to me?” Steve questions.

He hasn’t sent him away, not yet, and he takes in another staggering breath. The water ripples around his chest again, more violently this time, and he gasps as Steve slips his hand into the water, finding his flesh arm and sliding their fingers together.

“The water’s gone cold, Buck,” Steve murmurs, after a moment. It has; the warmth of Steve’s hand radiates around his fingers, insulating his palm against the cold surrounding it.

He fights a second urge to apologize.

Moments pass. He clutches at Steve’s hand, loosening his hold just so he can tighten it again.

“What are you thinking about?” Steve asks. He’s so close, and the light is so dim; it’s like he’s speaking directly into his mind.

“You don’t want to know,” he whispers. 

But Steve does, he does, he always does, even when his face crumples with the knowledge of it moments after he’s let the words slip, and Steve gives up on asking questions for a few days, silently holding him instead, letting that be enough.

“Would it help to tell me?” Steve asks. 

He slumps to the side, feeling the muscle of Steve’s bicep stiffen briefly beneath his cheek. He’s wearing a t-shirt, and the bottom edge of the sleeve is soaked; now it’s wetter still, dampened by his hair.

It does, it always does, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt first, like a burn that yields to fresh skin.

“I figured I’d never have you,” he said, turning his face indulgently into the damp fabric, letting his lips linger just above it. “So I gave up on everything. I joined up because I wanted to die, Steve. I wanted to die and I was ready to die and when I was on that table I begged God for it –“

He can feel the muscle of Steve’s arm tighten again, can sense, almost, Steve’s urgent need to stop him – to stop him, shut him up, haul him up out of the tub, maybe, but not kiss him, because Steve knows he can’t do that.

“And when I was falling it felt right, like destiny, an answered fuckin’ prayer,” he continues. “All I lived for was dying and now you’re telling me to learn something else, after everything, everything I –“

He’s crying now, the tears absurdly warm. If it weren’t for that – their warmth – he doubted Steve could feel it through his wet sleeve.

Steve doesn’t answer. He’s waiting.

“You’re shivering, Buck,” he says, finally, when he’s paused long enough to make it clear he won’t say anything else. He wants to bark out a laugh, but stops – and suddenly, being conscious of the trembling makes him shake harder.

“I couldn’t live with the loneliness,” he whispers, his voice cut up by his shuttering shoulders. “But I can’t live for you, either.”

Steve still doesn’t respond. He isn’t sure he wants him to.

“Come on, Buck, you’re –“ Steve begins. His voice falters, too. “Will you come out?”

He nods, a hard nod against Steve’s arm to compensate for the tremors of his body, and in a moment, strong arms are around him, pulling him up, the sound of the water crashing around them. He slumps forward, collapsing against Steve’s chest, only weakly aware of the water seeping away from his body and into Steve’s clothes.

And then Steve is wrapping a towel around him, soaking up the wet, or at least some of it, squeezing through his dripping hair, and then they’re stumbling toward the bedroom together.

He lets himself be laid down, rolled into the open sheets and covered by them. He’s faintly aware that he’s still shaking as he hears the wet smack of Steve’s clothes against the hardwood floor.

And then Steve is with him, around him, and he lets himself be held in the way he can only be held when he’s like this, hollowed out and confused and desperate.

Steve is warm. Burning warm, and it makes him shake harder, until he finally stops.

Steve’s lips are grazing his forehead, his wet hair, breathing thick, sweet air over his nose, his earlobe, his jaw. 

“You’ll find something more,” Steve says. When his body has gone slack, and the damp pillow has gone cold, too, except for the warm patch where their breath intermingles.

He doesn’t have the energy to laugh, to resist. In his exhaustion, he accepts it.

One day, he’ll lift his chin, find Steve’s mouth – pay him back for how careful he’s been. He’ll touch him with decisiveness, like he’s a thing he deserves.

For now he lets Steve run his hand over his back; lets his eyes slide half closed, then roll back completely. He’s warm, and blank, and out of his mind again; like the bath, but better, because Steve won’t go cold.

He isn’t sure he’s getting better. He isn’t sure this isn’t just another way of coveting death; slipping out of time, hoping for warmth. They assure him – Steve assures him, the only voice he’s tempted to believe – that one day, he will want to wake up.


End file.
